Magvel as a Character Gallery
by Raphiael
Summary: A collection of crackish drabbles related to FE8. Chapter 3 - In Which Lyon Attempts To Be A Belmont    and Ephraim is Not Dracula. Collection rated for innuendo/implications.
1. In Which Innes Smokes a Cigarette

**In Which Innes Attempts To Smoke A Cigarette**

Author's note: A journal prompt from Kitten Kisses/Sacae on LJ. I feel like Innes gets really bitchy when he has bad days. This is a bad day. Obviously, AU.

* * *

Innes wasn't sure he'd ever had such a powerful need for nicotine in his life. Between the idiot who'd managed to take up two parking spaces in the front lot (one of which, of course, was his favorite), the peer-editing partner who'd burst into tears when he'd returned her essay on molecular biology covered in red pen (he wanted to say her name was Nina, or Nelly, or something equally flowery and strange), and of course the grousing from the jerk at the back of the lecture hall about how _dull_ the lecture was and how he'd just get the notes from the bookish little fellow in the corner later, it had been a dreadfully frustrating day. Fantasizing about breaking said jerk's face was not quite as satisfying as Innes had imagined, either.

His fingers twitched as he dug into his messenger back for the pack of Marlboros he kept at hand – almost empty. It had been a bad week. Tana hated them. She said they made him smell like the inside of a seedy bar, though Innes preferred to think that was just her wild imagination and not an observation based in experience. Then again, Tana's opinion mattered less, now that she spent her days mooning after the jackass at the back of the lecture hall, whose ignorance only served to make her pay him more attention. Why did she have to go to the same university as him, anyway? Sometimes she was such a _child_.

He brought the cigarette to his lips and lit it, the taste of heady smoke a welcome change from the crisp evening air. He heard a little cough and wheeze from the bus stop nearby as the smoke wafted in that direction, but couldn't find it in himself to care. He'd been suffering all day; the little pipsqueak, whoever he was, could suffer a bit now. It wasn't like there was a "no smoking" sign around or anything like that.

"_Stop right there_!"

Innes recognized the voice immediately. The same one he'd heard "debating" the lecture-jerk's sister in the student government elections: L'Arachel Rochester, self-appointed president of the Campus Improvement Committee. Thankfully, the latter's promise of lowered coffee prices had beaten out the former's proposals of modest-but-totally-cute uniforms (Uniforms, in university? _Really_?) and rallying for ballroom dance to be taught in the required fitness classes. Unfortunately, she was just as passionate in her latest pursuit.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Before he could take just one last drag of his cigarette, she'd reached out and snatched it from his mouth. "Kidding? How could I be kidding about a matter as serious as this?" She tossed the cigarette down to the sidewalk and smashed it beneath her impractically high heel, then grabbed the little wheezing guy who Innes suddenly felt much worse for. "Look what you did to this poor, ailing student!"

"I-i-it wasn't the smoke, I-I just h-have allergies– " The kid, a freshman by the look of it, seemed to realize that his protests meant nothing, and so he hid beneath his oversized hoodie as L'Arachel went on a loud, impossibly fast tirade. Innes thought he heard something about "lung cancer" and "tooth decay", but somewhere things turned to "child labor" and "stopping pornography" and "saving the environment", all causes she had buttons for on her designer tote, and he doubted that it would make much sense even if she slowed down.

"All right, all right, I get it! I'll never smoke on campus again."

Her entire demeanor changed. Her fists unclenched, her face backed away from his, and her lips curled into an almost _cute_ little smile. "Good," she sang, patting his head as if he were a dog. "Now that that's squared away. . . can I have your number?"


	2. Pantsless Magic

**Pantsless Magic**

**Prompt: **L'Arachel/Lyon. Yes, in that order. Kink? Isn't holy princess x demon king host enough?

**Pairings:** L'Arachel/Lyon, onesided L'Arachel/Ephraim

**Warnings:** Implied sex, euphemisms galore

There were many things L'Arachel simply could not stand – dirt on her pristine clothing (a problem when one spent so much time traipsing around slaying evil and doing other holy things), bugs (especially ones with lots of legs, and ones with stingers, and ones in that ugly shade of brown – well, actually, especially all of them), Natasha (perhaps not _hate_, but who did she think she was, anyway?) – just to name a few. But high among them – perhaps above dirt, but just below bugs, was gloom. And it was gloom that permeated the campsite the night they reached Darkling Woods, gloom on the faces of the other members of Renais' ragtag little army, gloom in the horrible mud and sulfur smell that seemed to be everywhere. It would be one thing if it was just Knoll being gloomy. That, she had gotten used to. But no. It was everyone. All the _sighing_ and _frowning_ and _moping_, it was everywhere. She just couldn't stand it any longer.

She marched out to the tent of the army's leader, the Renaitian prince with the sexy _infuriating_ scar and invited herself inside. He was frowning, as he so often did these days, and tending to his lance – oh, that sounded dirty, and L'Arachel would not think of it again. No, no sexy scarred princes with impressive lances for the princess of Rausten.

"Prince Ephraim! Why are you in such low spirits? You have been since we left Rausten – " and how could anyone be down after viewing such a holy land? – "and I demand an explanation!" Goodness was about to triumph over evil! The righteous were about to overcome the enemy! How could anyone be so _gloomy_?

"It's nothing, L'Arachel," he sighed – again, with the sighing! – as he put away his weapon-she-would-not-think-about-again. "Don't concern yourself with me."

"Why must you be so _vague_? I swear, I will never understand you!" She thought back to the events before Ephraim's demeanor had gone from slightly chilly to downright frigid. "Is it that my uncle was out of Rausten's famous marzipan? I swear on Latona's own honor, I will see to it that you and every one of your men gets a fair share of marzipan when the Demon King is slain – "

"It has _nothing_ to do with marzipan, Princess L'Arachel," Ephraim snapped. L'Arachel frowned. The prince was thin enough – he couldn't be on a diet, could he?

Wait. Demon King. Maybe that was it. She recalled him asking something about souls and the like, and of the boy the beast had possessed – Lyon, she thought the name might have been. He had to be the problem. It made far more sense than marzipan.

"It's that boy the enemy is using, isn't it?" she gasped. "The one whose soul – "

" – cannot be saved, yes, I know. I accept it. Now. If you'll excuse me, I must sharpen my lance. Good night."

She rushed out of the the tent, her cheeks red at the idea. No, there were more important things at hand than the prince and his _lance._ She thought back, to her studies as a girl, and suddenly recalled a forbidden magic, the likes of which no maiden had attempted since Latona herself.

_I mustn't!_ she thought at first. But then, the image of Ephraim _sighing_ and Eirika looking ready to weep rose in her mind.

She was the beautiful princess of peerless beauty! The holy maiden of the divine theocracy of Rausten! This was a sacrifice she would have to make.

* * *

It was near midnight when she finally arrived, alone, at the ancient temple in the heart of the woods. She felt her heart slamming in her chest as she dismounted and stepped inside. Why was it that the Demon King had to choose the scariest place in all of Magvel to wait for them? It would have been so much easier if he'd set himself up in a bakery or something. Dealing with ancient, dreaded evil would probably be much more fun if she could do it while eating cake.

All thoughts of cake were driven from her thoughts as she heard a booming – on second thought, it sounded more "meek but trying very hard to be intimidating", but everything sounds more booming when one is frightened – voice call out "Foolish mortal, do you not know fear?"

L'Arachel knew fear well, of course, but that was hardly the sentiment she felt when she turned and saw a scrawny, more than slightly deranged-looking fellow in a _tiara_, of all things. Perhaps it was an attempt to disguise his terrible hair day. It looked as if he hadn't seen a comb in months.

"Ha! Fear? I am Princess L'Arachel, the holy princess of Rausten! If anyone should fear, it is you, for I shall vanquish your evil and free the. . ." Girly-man? Pretty-boy? ". . ._innocent_ from your hideous grasp! Prepare yourself, foul beast!"

The thing in Lyon rolled its eyes. "I assume you mean to wave your pathetic sacred stone at me, _again_? When will you humans learn to desp – "

Before he could finish his ramble about despair and horror and all those other things demons tended to get off on, L'Arachel shoved his against the wall – surprisingly easilyy, he was small under those robes – and kissed him.

"Mmmf, what is the meaning of this? I am the Demon King, you fool, you aren't supposed to be – "

"Silence, evil one! I, L'Arachel, will conquer you!" And with that, L'Arachel shoved him to the ground and tore off his cloak with ease. He did try to put up a fight, to his credit, but that was rather like saying a toad tried to put up a fight before Lute used it in a stew. IT simply did not matter.

"You cannot mean – no! Not the holy pantsless magic of Latona!" As the Demon King gasped, L'Arachel fulfilled the "pantsless" bit for each of them and sat astride him.

"The very one!" she proclaimed, before kissing him again in a way that no one else would have thought holy. Of course, L'Arachel knew better.

* * *

Morning found the Renaitian twins preparing for battle with their enemy, each wearing the faces of sadness and grief and all those other unhappy things that had become so normal.

"We'll leave without L'Arachel," Eirika sighed. "Natasha can handle the healing well enough, and Moulder can support her – "

"_She shall do no such thing!_"

Eirika turned to see L'Arachel, her clothes wrinkled and her hair undone, riding up the crest of the hill with something – someone? – on the horse behind her. On closer inspection, she recognized the figure. She gasped and grabbed her twin's shoulder.

"Is this some sort of trap?" Ephraim asked, narrowing his eyes in his usual expression of Serious Business.

"It isn't," L'Arachel said. "I've saved your friend's soul, and vanquished the Demon King, all by myself!"

"But you said that was impossible!" Ephraim protested.

"Well, it is, without a certain forbidden holy magic!" As Lyon climbed down from the horse, the terror in his eyes and the mussed (but not evil-mussed) state of his hair gave credence to the idea that this wasn't typical magic. "In any event, stop being so gloomy. The day is saved, your friend is fine, and now everything is better. So, cheer up!"

There was silence as Lyon attempted to gain his bearings, and Ephraim and Eirika tried to decide whether or not they trusted this development. It was Natasha who finally spoke, having crept behind them in her sneaky other-healer-girl way.

"Forgive me, Princess L'Arachel, but. . . where are Prince Lyon's pants?"


	3. In Which Lyon Attempts To Be A Belmont

Notes: Um I think this came from some cracky conversation with Rethira or another, and possibly a night full of way too much Castlevania. Yeah.

* * *

**In Which Lyon Attempts To Be A Belmont (And Ephraim Is Not Dracula)**

He's smaller than the others who've come to the castle, and far more timid: short, thin, with long, pale hair that almost covers his wide eyes. How he got this far, Ephraim isn't sure. He finds most of his ilk dead in foyer, and it's always such a pain to get Kyle and Forde to clean them up. "Don't engage the zombies" really seems like common sense, but it's something "vampire hunters" seem, as a whole, to lack. If they had any sense at all, they'd have realized by now that Eirika takes her "vampire overlord" title quite seriously, and is very definitely not kidding when she claims she'll "do something really bad" if the hunters keep assuming it's Ephraim. But they keep assuming anyway, and thus, Ephraim is stuck with this. Again.

Ephraim yawns and gives a halfhearted wave. "Oh. Hey."

The poor little hunter is certainly taken aback by _that._ He stammers what must be a prayer and holds up a cross roped with garlic. _Quaint,_ Ephraim thinks, though he holds his tongue. All these superstitions – if he couldn't see himself in a mirror, how would he _ever_ get his hair to stay with that casual bedroom look he so liked? Maybe hunters thought he really did roll out of bed looking as he did.

"Oh, stop that, really." Ephraim stands and steps closer, and the hunter gives a little yelp of surprise.

"S-s-stay back, creature of the night! I, L-L-L-Lyon of Grado, shall slay you wh-where you stand!"

Ephraim rolls his eyes. Oh, the Grado clan. _Again. _He tries extra hard not to kill them, but sometimes it's hard to stop himself when they insist on trying to run stakes through his chest. But little Lyon doesn't look much like Glen (who made it out with only a missing eye – his own fault, really) or Cormag (who had the brains to leave when he was asked), or even like Selena (who claimed a moral obligation to engage the zombies – again, with the lack of sense – and was probably still roaming the corridors trying to make them stay dead). No, if anything, he looks like the clan head himself.

Oh. _Oh._ Well, that just complicates everything.

"Listen," Ephraim says. He reaches up – Lyon cringes and whimpers – and gives only a light tug at his cravat. "If I do anything to you, your. . . father?" Lyon whimpers again, and Ephraim knows his suspicions were right. "Well, he'll probably set the castle on fire. Again. And I really don't want to renovate _again_. Such a hassle, especially since Eirika _just_ redecorated – and you've never seen her when she's angry." Ephraim wishes he hadn't, either. "So. . . why don't you scurry on home, or something, and I'll just pretend to be slain for a while. How does that sound?"

"B-b-but I must _actually_ slay you! I can't _pretend_ slay you; my father will know for sure!"

Ephraim sighs. He had a feeling it would be like that.

"Renovating the castle again is far less trouble than, ahem, being slain." Maybe a show of his vampire prowess – is prowess the word? Ephraim isn't one for big words. Hm, perhaps _uber awesome kickass powers_ is a better term - but in any event, he warps himself to Lyon's side and bares his teeth. It really is an effort not to laugh at the way the hunter screams. "I'd keep that in consideration."

Lyon shoves the cross in Ephraim's face with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm. It crashes into his nose, which, vampire or not, hurts like a _bitch. _Now, there are many, many things which vampires are immune to. There are only a few which they are not – among them, nosebleeds and bloodlust.

Unfortunately for Ephraim, the first one often comes of being smacked in the nose with a heavy iron cross. And unfortunately for Lyon, the second one often comes of being around the first, and he has an exceptionally pretty neck, and Ephraim hasn't had a good meal in something like a week, and-

Ephraim only realizes exactly what's going on when he finds that Lyon is cool and limp in his arms, with twin red marks on his ever-so-pretty neck.

"Oh, _blast._"

Well, this is inconvenient. Ephraim can already imagine Eirika's rage if he manages to get the castle torched again. And well, Lyon isn't really an offensive vampire hunter. In fact, as far as skinny garlic-smelling humans go (really, did he _bathe_ in the stuff?), he's sort of cute.

It seems rather rude to reuse nosebleed blood, so Ephraim sighs and slices open his hand with a scrape along his fang. (Vampires aren't immune to those, either.) He shoves the bleeding hand into Lyon's open mouth and waits. 1, 2, 3.

"I will. . . er. . .slay. . . you?" Lyon gives Ephraim a rather dazed look, before licking his lips and quirking an eyebrow.

"Cut that out," Ephraim grumbles, before pulling Lyon up to his throat to feed with a roll of his eyes. "Eirika is going to _kill me._"


End file.
